


If Only for Tonight

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Secret Crush, Sherlock is a Brat, The Boys are Younger Here, Unrequited Love, What If We're Not Pretending?, a night at the opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:39:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: Mycroft has a chance to have the man he adores from afar on his arm for a night. Will it be enough?





	1. Fortuitous Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InnerSpectrum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/gifts).



> InnerSpectrum created a stunning banner for a story, and then asked for a story to go with the banner. Here ya go.

 

Mycroft Holmes was a man of simple refined tastes. Classic literature, dark chocolate, high-end whiskey, beautiful art. He appreciated, acknowledged, valued and prized the rare and wonderful, the truly unique, the infinitely sublime. There was one thing he craved above all others that was all of those and more, yet it was a masterpiece of such singularity Mycroft knew to the core of his soul it would never, could never belong to him.

That one thing was a ruggedly handsome angel of the earth with an East End accent and eyes and hair of divine darkness, who upheld the law of the land and bore the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. His name was Gregory Lestrade, and he was the hopeless love of Mycroft's life.

They'd met 18 months ago, and became something resembling friends in the interim, having been forced into proximity and eventual alliance by the drug-fueled chaos wrought by Mycroft's beloved baby brother. They had been close once upon a time, but ever since the great schism that occurred the day after Sherlock's 12th birthday, he had been dedicated to making as large a wreck of both his and his brother's lives as humanly possible. He blasted holes in Mycroft's already friable self-confidence, took sledgehammers to their foundation of fraternity, and tried ever grander and more terrible means of destruction of self and sibling each time an opportunity presented itself.

It left Mycroft with damage of all sorts. He had scars from unstable chemicals, objects thrown in anger, and soul-deep cuts from words wielded like barbed weapons. He'd been hospitalised on four different occasions after serving as an unwitting subject in Sherlock's "experiments" - though he'd visited and held vigil by Sherlock's bedside at least thrice that. He'd ended up with a separated shoulder and a tetanus shot for the shallow slice across his ribcage from the last flophouse he'd dragged his half-conscious sibling out of. He couldn't love his brother any less, but he also couldn't stand much more. So he sought to encase himself in ice and armour, protecting what little he still possessed of his true self from being snapped at and ripped to shreds by the slavering hound of his brother's perpetual questing to wound him out of existence.

And he persisted, still able to be found in the shadows, pulling strings and being of the world but not in it as he observed through screens and tinted windows and bulletproof glass. And Greg Lestrade, now a Detective Sergeant with the Met, had stood by him, and saved Sherlock's stubborn skin more than once, and had quietly managed something Mycroft never had. He'd found a way to make Sherlock rescue himself. He'd struck a bargain that showed great promise where the burgeoning investigator was concerned - stay clean and gain access to cold case files, puzzles to solve, the odd active investigation so long as he used Greg as a filter. And miracle of miracles, it seemed to be working.

6 painful weeks in rehab, nearly 3 months sober since, nary a slip as he kept himself occupied and mostly out of harm's way contributing to the Met's close rate. 2 close calls when a few too-quiet days edged dangerously into the territory of ennui, but so far...

And tonight he'd be on a stakeout, hunting for proof of a suburban serial killer whose weapon of choice seemed to be shivs made from energy drink cans. There were a handful of officers nearby to protect and observe, so provided Sherlock kept his meanest deductions to himself, his brother could breathe easy for the night. At least as easy as one _could_ breathe when the suffocating atmosphere of political networking threatened to snuff out his enjoyment of a night at the opera, a pastime that typically revived even the most flagging of his spirits.

He would also be expected to bring an escort, someone sparkly enough to be distracting while possessing enough brains to be an asset and **not** make him want to hurl himself from the balcony he'd be occupying. His assistant- a fiercely intelligent young woman nearly a decade his junior whose brains barely exceeded her devastating beauty- had been the perfect plus-one his last 2 required appearances. Alas she'd come down with a fever (hovering at 39 and threatening to climb) wavering ever so slightly on her skyscraping stilettos and growing paler with each completed report until Mycroft had pried the Blackberry out of her limp fingers, scooped her into his arms, held her firmly in the backseat of his towncar and deposited her at her flat with meds, tea, a capable nurse and direct orders to get well.

His Iceman reputation and dyed-in-the-wool homosexuality notwithstanding, there had been whispered speculation about him and the lovely Anthea since she'd cleared the selection process with flying colors and began life as his right hand. If he'd had the presence of mind to direct a few snaps of the footage of him carrying her bridal style out of the building and taking her home to some of his colleagues, they might even forgive him for turning up alone.

Not that going stag was the worst thing he could do in such an instance, but he was truly loath to go by himself. Another person was... protection, a social shield to hold up against the slings and arrows and veiled shots taken by people that were nothing more than a necessary evil to be suffered.

Of course... there  _was_   **one**  person he'd love to have on his arm, the perfect blend of protector and playmate... if only he could screw up the courage to ask the man to accompany him. Gregory Lestrade was comfortably bisexual, if low-key about the matter, so the odds were far higher that he'd end up with a laugh and gentle refusal rather than a black eye for his invitation. But the man was working, and so far out of Mycroft's league that if his own league exploded, Greg wouldn't hear the sound for 3 days. And besides that-

A knock upon the open door to his office preceded the smiling face of the object of his ill-conceived affection. Greg stepped in looking fashion-shoot ready in a suit of navy wash and wear, the jacket on the hook of a finger over his shoulder, the sleeves of his serviceable grey buttondown rolled to torment Mycroft with the pornographic expanse of his tanned and toned forearms.

"Evening, Mr. Holmes. Or are you off the clock?"

The tone of the reply was cautious, neatly masking his swirl of confusion. "I... am. After a fashion."

"Good. Didn't want to use your given til off-hours." The DS flashed him a grin that could only be termed 'cheeky' and leaned in an elegant slouch against the doorframe. "H'lo, Mycroft."

Oh. They were here again. Alright. He could do this.

"Hello... Gregory. How are you?"

"Well enough, thanks. And how do you fare, Myc...roft? Ahem. Doing alright?"

"Indeed. Just... steeling myself for the evening ahead. But what brings you to Whitehall? Did you need something? Assistance staging a coup in Bolivia, perhaps?"

"Nah. I'd take the Caribbean any day. Thought I was on but the DI just let me off for the night. All my mates are already off, out on the lash, and there's no way I'd catch up now. So I thought I'd..." Gregory broke off, plowing a hand through his hair in an unsettling ruffle that gave him a charmingly disheveled air before settling the hand on the back of his neck and rubbing an unconscious little circle, a self-comforting motion to soothe his nerves. But why on earth should Gregory be nervous around _him?_ "...y'know, check if you wanted to... do something. Maybe grab a drink, a bite out."

The tapestry of the universe had dropped a stitch somewhere. Mycroft's heart skipped a beat. He was hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or dead.

"But you're busy, so I'll just-"

_Wait! Don't go!_

"It's... just a work thing. An event out, where my presence is undeniably requested. Else I'd gladly skip it. But I have to attend and... as it happens... I have no one with whom to attend."

Greg's brows rose to his hairline, unable to quite believe his luck. The universe was conspiring in his favour for a change. "So... you're... in need of... a date?" His eyes went wide. "I mean, a mate? Gah! I mean... someone to go with. That's... yeah. S'what I meant." The blush and dropped gaze meant he missed the amazed smile that touched Mycroft's mouth.

"Yes," he answered simply, voice hushed. "I find myself in need of... a suitable companion for the evening." Some flirtatious streak he would swear in court he'd never laid eyes on in his life chose that moment to flare into being and take over his power of speech. "Can you think of anyone who might be... interested to see if we suit?"

Thank goodness for inherent honesty, but the man should never attempt to bluff at poker. His eyes gave entirely too much away.

"Yeah. I can think of... one person. Nice guy, not bad-looking, even happens to be free tonight."

"How fortunate for me. Though it does beg the question of how much he might charge another time." There was a flash of surprise in those dark chocolate depths, then a small snort erupted from the man being propped up by the doorframe.

"S'a good one, Holmes. But this, uh, event you've got on. They won't mind you pitching up with a male escort?"

Mycroft knew precisely what was _meant_ by the question, but his eyes still lit with an unholy gleam at the fun to be had with what had actually been _said_. "Why, Sergeant Lestrade. I had no inkling you were a professional in your off time. Do you ever find the balancing act tedious?"

If he'd been drinking something, Greg would have a spit take.

"However, to answer your question, no. It will not really matter. The group that will be subjecting me to scrutiny this evening tends to care more about the package of said companions than the contents therein. Anyone I take is guaranteed to be better looking than I, though their principle function is a bauble to distract, so my colleagues will perhaps be incautious in their speech and let down their collective guards. In so much as my assistant is typically a sound choice - a beautiful face concealing a lethally brilliant mind - I feel you will be a very apt substitute... provided you do not mind being thusly judged on looks versus merit."

"Not a bit. Never really happens to lil old me, so it'll be a real lark. Do I get to have a dictaphone under my tie?"

Mycroft made a small noise of amusement through his nose and shook his head, a little bubble of delight building in his chest even as he had to stop himself issuing orders to deport any of the empty-headed fools who had ever made the modern Adonis in his office feel anything less than ravishingly appreciated or worthy of being so.

"Alright, I'll just have a pen ready and take notes on my cuff. Do I need a different tie for... what is this thing anyway?"

"A night at the opera.  _Tristan und Isolde_ , at the Wigmore. Balcony seats. Black tie." Gregory's face fell a bit, and Mycroft's heart dropped with it.

"Posh do. Gotcha. Well that's that stuffed then." It had to be a Herculean feat of his imagination that Lestrade actually seemed... disappointed. "I'd love to go - truly - but I've not got a tux, and I think any shop that does rentals is closed by now."

Oh. Well. Not only a horse of a different color, but a unicorn cantering out of the mists.

"As it happens... my... tailor could accommodate you. I have to go collect my own suit for the evening so it's not out of the way. It would mean a quick fit rather than a true bespoke, but... if memory serves, he just completed a suitable piece for an agent I know who... shan't be requiring it anymore. You two are comparable in size and shape, and Hartford is nothing if not a wizard of sartorial finessing. We could have you done in a trice, and you could keep the tux for your next t- any time you might need it. A thank you, with my sincerest compliments for coming to my rescue."

He stopped rolling a fountain pen between his fingers and looked up, breath stolen away by the teasing expression on Lestrade's face.

"You trying to doll me up, Holmes?"

_Ohhh yes. Doll you up, dress you up, mess you up... then take you down. If only..._

He could pretend they belonged to each other, that someone so wonderful had chosen him above all the other superior options on the planet. They could go to the opera and be mistaken for a couple, be linked for a few hours in the mental files of those who would see them. He could have Greg on his arm, in his arms... if only for tonight.

"Not in the least, Lestrade. I merely... wish to show you off to the greatest advantage." There was an expression of shuttered consideration on the cop's face, but Mycroft shut down his analyzer for the time being. "If you'll give me just a moment to secure my office, we can be on our way."

90 minutes later, they were side by side in the back of the towncar, dressed in sleek stylish black that matched their conveyance with effortless ease. Greg was a Bond-esque vision in his classically cut tux, all clean lines and sharp-edged sex appeal. His 5'o clock shadow had been neatly dealt with at the shop, a crisp and appealing aftershave applied that lingered in the air, and his hair was smoothed back with pomade, a glistening look like he'd just stepped out of the shower... or a wet dream.

He took a second to scold his imagination. That _will be quite enough of that, thank you._

Mycroft was trying to behave, fidgeting with a cigarette he had no intention of lighting. Little did he know that the look of him in black superfine tailored to the millimeter was having quite the effect on his escort.

Greg had stepped out of the fitting booth, needing help with his bowtie - and nearly faceplanted in the carpet. Mycroft Holmes was already dressed, fiddling with a cufflink as he waited and wholly unaware of the way the lamps were caressing him with soft light. Or the way the virgin purity of his shirt flirted with the velvet edging on his lapels like a debutante. Or the fact that as far as Greg was concerned, from the tousled bedhead sexiness of his auburn curls to his mirror polish shoes, Mycroft Holmes was sex on legs. Pure posh porn.

He wanted to scruff up the pretty picture his 'date' presented. He wanted to kiss the public school accent out of his mouth, then watch those lips stretching over his cock. He wanted to fuck him in that suit and not let him take a thing off. He wanted to make him come so hard he forgot his own name... then hold him through the night and make him breakfast.

He wanted Mycroft... and if only for tonight, he could pretend to have him.

 


	2. Rules of Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rules are established, and the show is about to begin...

A few blocks from the Wigmore, Mycroft gave him the Cliff's Notes version of how the evening would likely progress. There would be pre-curtain cocktails, though they were timing their arrival to coincide with exactly enough time for one drink and for the assemblage to get a good look at Gregory. He would direct Greg with a hand at the small of his back but did not expect him to hang off his arm. They would likely flirt within the limits of social convention, and Greg could expect to be flirted with by most everyone else, heavily and to the very borders of good taste if Anthea's experience was any benchmark.

They needn't hold hands or kiss, and they would skip the post-show formalities (a lot of tedious posturing and schmoozing) in favour of a late supper before Mycroft dropped Greg off at his flat.

It sounded a pleasant enough evening, the pressure reduced as much as possible, even if it was designed to walk and talk and quack like a date.

Though if he were being completely honest, Greg kinda liked the idea of Mycroft wanting to show him off. The implication that he was special - a beautiful piece of eye candy, a rare thing to be coveted and grant Mycroft the envy of his peers - sent a thrill up his spine.

It also fanned the tiny hopeful ember burning low in his heart that if Mycroft (who always went stag if not with a woman, and was a creature of unknowable depth at the best of times) was alright showing up with a bloke on his arm, that maybe... _just maybe_... he might have a shot someday.

They were in tuxes that fit like second skins, going to a romantic opera at a century-old music hall. And somehow Greg Lestrade, East End boy, was going to sit in a box with a gorgeous posh boy like he damn well belonged there.

Stepping out first, the 'minor' government official offered a hand to his... escort, making extra certain he was steady on his feet before he closed the door, a quick double tap to the roof alerting his driver they were clear and he could take himself off until the performance's end, unless otherwise summoned. They walked in through the gorgeous iron & glass entryway as Greg schooled his face into an expression of passable calm. Mycroft's hand was warm where it hovered an inch from the small of Greg's back, the odd brush of finger or palm sending zinging tingles along his nerves. His escort seemed unaffected by the accidental contact, and Greg vowed at some point in the evening he'd manage to 'unsettle' the man.

He handed their passes to a young lady in the lounge, and they were directed downstairs to the bar where the private pre-show reception was underway. Diners from the interior restaurant were craning their necks to catch better glimpses of the striking pair they presented before the doors closed behind them with a muted hush.

Waiters in neat uniform were circling with trays of champagne and glittering pink drinks, and Mycroft selected two of the latter before looking who was around to be found. They'd have a half hour or so until the bell to see and be seen. But seen was the operative word right now. Stone statues were more relaxed than the minor official, so Greg leaned in close to take his glass and murmur a reminder to breathe and look like he was enjoying himself - sound advice, even if he let his expression convey something altogether more salacious to anyone watching. But it seemed to work, and Mycroft held a deep breath before exhaling some tension and granting Greg a small smile.

A pair of whippet-thin swells were the first to approach, halfway through their own blushing cocktails and so stiff they resembled well-dressed planks. Greg braced for impact but Mycroft greeted them with more warmth than frost, and they took the introduction to Gregory in smooth stride.

"Aren't these delightful?" cooed Tinka, indicating her glass. "Such a charming idea, and so clever."

Mycroft allowed a small ridge in one brow to ask on his behalf.

"They're Liebestrank!" crowed her companion, whose name had been such an impressively unpronounceable string of consonants Greg's memory hadn't bothered to make a note of it.

"Ah. A jewel-tinged ode to the Wagnerian love potion," Mycroft expounded for Greg's edification, who'd barely had time to skim the opera's summary in the car. "Clever indeed." They all took another sip, noting that the fruit juice and syrups played well enough with the vodka and soda - light and playful as a nymph, potentially deadly if one let one's guard down too far. The couple spotted someone else they simply  _had_  to go chat with and took their leave, Tinka pressing a small peck to both their cheeks and hoping Greg enjoyed the show.

"Well, I've no doubt he'll at least be able to follow the gist." The unpleasantly unctuous tone came from directly behind them, and both men froze as its speaker stepped into the recently vacated space before them. The man appeared a little greasy, slightly shining under the lights in a manner that didn't fit mere sweat. Or maybe that was the oily 'used car salesman' vibe Greg was picking up... along with a sour whiff of desperation and ripe cheese under a flowery aftershave. The combination was unappetizing, to say the least, and both he and Mycroft subtly leaned back an inch. "Well, Holmes, aren't you going to introduce me to your...  _friend_?"

No points for guessing the sorts of things that had flickered in that pause, or the implication oppressively rude in his final choice.

A barely suppressed sigh that Greg felt rather than heard, and Mycroft let the small gap between their shoulders close in a comforting press.

"One often hopes to keep good things to oneself, but if you insist. Gregory Lestrade, this is Seton Cram. We... were at Eton together." The order of introduction was something even Greg knew, and he let the corner of his mouth quirk as he pressed in a bit closer.

If Cram noticed - and oh what a fitting surname, as all Greg wanted to do was tell him where he could stuff his obnoxious ozone - he didn't let on. He merely affected an air of mock hurt. "And Oxford, Mycroft, not to mention Lady Smallwood's holiday do last year." Seton leaned in a bit, dropping his volume to a suggestive  _sotto voce._ "Don't let this one fool you for a second. Mind like a bunker. Never forgets a thing, since 'one never knows from whence may come the useful and necessary'." The cheap imitation of Mycroft's soothing tenor grated on Lestrade's nerves like a patch of asphalt when he had to lay his bike down. This skeezy git was less than half the man his date was, and likely knew it. And oh Lord he tinted his eyebrows like some aging housewife, unaware it didn't make him seem young or dapper... just as he was likely unaware that his roots were showing a bit. "Now me... I'm all for acquisition, especially of so  _charming_  a find. Wherever did you come across this one, Mycroft?" As though Greg were a puppy from the pound or some delightful secondhand item from a thrift shop.

Their eyes flicked to each other's, Mycroft giving him a silent indication of support, no matter which of them responded or what answer was provided. It took less than half a second.

"I'm a friend of the younger Mr. Holmes. He introduced us." Not a lie per se, merely a reinterpretation of facts already in evidence.

"Hmm," Seton mused around a sip of scotch. "Well, Sherlock must be getting to some interesting spots if this is the sort he's stumbling across these days. Taking the night off, Greg, or will you be working later? Unless... you're working now?"  _Holmes could be paying for it. And exactly how much to engage your services?_  

The unsubtle slur against Mycroft and the lascivious implication against slid over his skin like a slimy pair of lips. Between the badge he had in the car and the man at his side, Greg was fairly sure he could get away with a solid right hook to the man's jaw. Instead he squared his own.

"Actually, I've got the night off so I could escort Mycroft, but we'll be back at it tomorrow. I'm a cop. Sherlock consults with us a bit." 

The unevenly tinted brows rose to the receding hairline. Before he could walk back his misstep, Mycroft injected himself smoothly into the fray.

"You're too modest, my dear." An arm settled over Greg's shoulders like a mantle of authority. "Gregory is a decorated sergeant with the Met, and does occasional consulting with security services as well. Trustworthy, intelligent,  _ruthlessly_  loyal to queen and country." There was a hint of pride in Mycroft's assertions, a subtle retooling of his body language to better show off his date and be clear that he  **was**  showing him off. Greg's spine straightened with pleasure as he slid Mycroft his eyes and a warm half-smile. Using his peripherals, he was able to spot a look on Seton's face that he'd seen on his nieces when they were toddlers and one of their toys broke or went missing. It was swiftly replaced by a glacial sneer.

"Really? Well, between your brother to boost his close rates and any recommendations  _you_  hand out for his  _ruthless_ loyalty and... 'occasional consulting' no doubt young Gregory will have quite the meteoric rise through the ranks. Should you find yourself in need of a friendly ear in the House of Lords, do come look me up, won't you?"

Oh that fucking tore it. This berk was toast. His fingers were forming a proper fist and itching to bury themselves in this nob head's toffee nose - when Mycroft's digits gave his shoulder a soft squeeze.

"Per usual, Seton, you're not even half right. My brother's interest lies more in cold cases, which Gregory kindly supplies to occupy him, and more often than not he's far too busy with his own projects to help with active investigations. Gregory is a brilliant investigator, and his division's close rate has only incrementally increased since Sherlock started working with them. I shouldn't be surprised to find him a DI in short order  _solely on his merits_ , though he would not be out of place as a DCI or even Chief Super, were that his aim. He'd not be the sort to languish idly behind a desk." This time the implication saw Greg biting back a smile instead of a sock.

Mycroft's arm slid down along Gregory's spine to settle round his waist, fingers curling a little into the meat over his ribs. The unconsciously possessive posture made Greg want to crow. He wasn't a toy to be passed around the schoolyard and broken by a bully. Mycroft 'caring is not an advantage' Holmes cared. For _**him**_. Or at least about what happened to him. And that little nudge was just enough for Greg.

"Aw. Thank you, darlin'."

He tucked himself a little closer into his date's side and tipped his head to rest on Mycroft's shoulder, brown orbs flashing a neon sign to "politely piss off" combined with a potent dose of bedroom eyes.  _Yes_ , they declared. _Yes I **will**  be taking this man home later, or he'll take me. I will peel off that marvelous tux and tend to the skin underneath. We will fuck and play as long as we want, until I make him come for England, and you will _never _know what it's like to be with either of us, you sad wanker with your sad eyebrow roots._ He threw in a quick bite of his lower lip for good measure, and tried not to remember it wasn't actually true.

"Anytime, my dear. Now if you'll excuse us," Mycroft began, shifting to a polite tone that made it blatantly obvious they would be leaving regardless of the man's wishes, "I see an _actual_ friend I must speak to before the performance." Greg straightened up enough to let himself be tugged to the other side of the room, where they comfortably chatted up Evelyn Green, a former schoolfellow of Mycroft's who apparently ran Spain now. After introductions Greg let his hand slip down to Mycroft's so he could lace their fingers together. Their hostess's eyes kept straying to the twined hands Mycroft didn't seem to notice they still shared, and pleasantly engaged Greg in the conversation that lasted right up til the 10 minute bell. She slipped Greg her card and a peck to the cheek before delivering similar affection to Mycroft, inviting them both to stop by for dinner later in the week, or simply give her a ring anytime they wished to visit Andalucia. 

"Nice to get out of the city from time to time. Gives one a chance to relax. Though I'm sure Gregory is very good about relaxing you, reminding you to look after yourself."

"Oh." A hint of blush was painting across Mycroft's aristocratic cheekbones like a sunset. "Actually-"

"I look after him," Greg finished, covering whatever potential truth his date had been about to offer up. He leaned in a little conspiratorially, allowing a suggestion of secrecy in his words. "S'easier that way. You know Mycroft. Always puts himself so far down the list he might as well not even be on it."

The look in her eyes plainly stated that she knew just what Gregory was about and heartily approved. She trilled a little laugh like a crystal bell, and patted Mycroft's arm while confirming Greg's assertion. "Certainly has your number, Croft. And high time, in my less than humble opinion." His only response was a small smile not quite hidden by the tip of his head towards the floor. "Alright, darlings, I must away to my seat. Gregory, it was lovely to meet you." Gregory took her offered hand and pressed a fond kiss to the back. "And Mycroft, always a pleasure, infrequent though it is," she stated, as Mycroft allowed himself to be gathered into a fond and easy hug Greg knew like a Miranda warning was an eclipse-rare occurrence for the man. "Abientot, my dears. And do please utilise my card sooner rather than later."

She breezed away in a cloud of chiffon and Dior perfume, doubtless heading for a center seat in an orchestra row. Mycroft looked down as if only just realising he still retained Gregory's hand in his own. His fingers started to loosen until he let the gaze flash to the other occupants, whereupon he reasserted his hold and escorted Gregory from the room in the direction of the large staircase leading to the upper balcony row.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I belatedly realized the Wigmore only has a rear mezzanine, no boxes. But I want this at the Wigmore and I need the boys to have a place to snuggle and watch the show so... my AU Wigmore has 2 opera boxes.
> 
> There's gonna be one more part to this, up in a few days or whenever I get to a satisfactory stopping point. In the meantime, have a Liebestrank and feel free to leave a comment.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh Lord. Who told this story it could keep going? It did it without my permission and I feel bad I haven't posted yet, so now there will be a second chapter with the details of the night out....
> 
> In the meantime, kudos and comments sustain me.


End file.
